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“How’d you get this?”
She squirmed a little. “I took it from Odell’s room.”
Landry looked up at her. “He’s going to realize it’s missing.”
She shook her head. “He offered me the rest of the newspaper. So I t
ook it. I’m just afraid he recognized me.”
“Neither of us looks like this now,” he said.
Landry was right. With his hair much longer and the designer stubble that was starting to be a close-cropped beard, he looked nothing like the clean-cut, clean-shaven cop in the photo. Now he looked more like a beach bum.
Or a pirate.
Is that why Alma thought she knew him? Hadn’t Odell said that Alma’s boss, Andres Santiago, was a modern-day pirate? Then others like him would have visited the island and apparently Alma had fallen for one of them. Fallen hard, given the way she’d looked at Landry with both love—and fear.
But why fear? Did she think that her pirate had caused the deaths of Andres and Medina and their children? Did she live in fear that the killer would come back for her, as well?
Or had Alma been afraid because as delusional as she might be, she’d seen a killer when she looked at Landry?
Willa felt a chill as she met his eyes.
“You should get a shower and change.”
She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest again. “You’re going to tell me what painting we’re looking for first.”
Landry studied her, wondering what went on in that head of hers, suspecting he knew. “It’s a blue sailboat bent in the wind with a red and white sail, small.” He held his hands about eight inches apart, all the time watching her face. “It was marked for the art show but it wasn’t there.”
Her smile could have cut glass. “That’s why you came to my show. You were only after the painting. Until you couldn’t find it. Then you were after me.” She looked like she might want to scratch his eyes out. “Just tell me this. What would have happened if Zeke hadn’t come along when he did? If I would have gotten into your car with you?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he glanced toward the bedroom. He could see her bed, a double all made up with pretty floral yellow-and-white sheets and a brightly colored spread of primary colors. It looked more than a little inviting since he hadn’t had but a few fitful hours of sleep for the past seventy-two hours.
But unfortunately sleep was the last thing he thought of when he looked at Willa St. Clair’s bed—and that made that bed damned dangerous.
Dragging his gaze away, he saw her easel, a painting on it. He stepped into the second room, glanced into the bathroom, then studied her artwork.
The painting was of the villa but there was something about it that made his stomach knot. One wall was blood-red. At first he thought it was bougainvillea, but on closer inspection it appeared to be splattered with blood as if a massacre had happened here.
He heard her step into the room, could feel her watching him. The painting was haunting. He pulled his gaze away to look at her, surprised by the effect of her painting on him, but maybe even more surprised by her talent and the effect she had on him.
“Well?”
He frowned, having forgotten the question.
“What did you plan to do to me the night of the art show?” she demanded, meeting his hooded gaze with a furious one of her own.
“You know the answer,” he said, waving it off. “I needed the disk.” He hated the hurt he saw in her expression. “Darlin’, I’m a cop. I was doing my job, just like I’m doing right now, whether you believe me or not.”
He looked at the painting again. It was like looking at a car wreck. You didn’t want to look but you couldn’t help yourself. “What the hell is this?” he asked, pointing at the red splatters on the wall.
She seemed to pull her gaze away from him, focusing slowly on the painting. “I don’t know. It’s just what I see. I paint what I see in my…mind.”
He swore softly. “All your other stuff was nice sailboats, sunny days, warm turquoise water.”
“That was before I witnessed a murder.”
He sobered, softening as he looked at her. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Believe me it’s given me a few nightmares, as well.”
